


Lemonade, Glasses and a Hotel Bed

by takeitbabyboy



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Sex, First Time, M/M, Manipulation, Oral Sex, Rimming, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 08:14:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19719739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takeitbabyboy/pseuds/takeitbabyboy
Summary: * Spoilers for Spider-Man: Far From HomeMy interpretation of what could have happened if Quentin had decided to use other means of persuasion to get what he wanted. (Inspired by my friend Steven and our mutual love of the idea of Jake Gyllenhaal and Tom Holland making out on screen.)





	Lemonade, Glasses and a Hotel Bed

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so I am aware that Peter Parker is supposed to be like 15 years old but for the sake of this fic maybe suspend your disbelief and appreciate the 20-something of Tom Holland. I tagged for underage and there is a brief mention of Peter not being old enough to drink, but disclaimer, I do not condone sex between minors and hot Jake Gyllenhaals with capes! Thank you.

Peter stirs the ice in his lemonade with the red silly straw in his glass. The bar is sticky under his forearms but he can hardly care as he sits and broods over his sweet-tart beverage with Mr. Beck. He knows he is just a kid but sometimes the pressure of being Spider-Man makes him feel very old. Too old. Old enough to be able to have a beer if he wanted to. (If he’s being honest, he’s not even sure he’d like to.)

Mr. Beck- _Quentin_ , he’s said to call him- asks him what he wants, and there are so many things going through his head. He wants to be with his friends. He wants to bring back Mr. Stark. He wants to be wrapped in a big hug from his Aunt May. He wants to hold MJ’s hand at the top of the Eiffel Tower and give her that black dahlia necklace. He wants to kiss someone and have that feeling in his stomach that people describe in books and movies. He wants not to have the weight of the world on his shoulders for a bit.

“I want to go back on my trip with my friends.” It is the least complicated thing he could say and yet it is such a crazy idea at this point that he almost feels embarrassed to say it.

Quentin smiles softly at him, and it warms his whole face. He’s amused, sort of like they are part of a private joke. Peter’s stomach clenches a bit and he feels a tingling in his hands that has nothing to do with webs. He has noticed good-looking men before- hell, he’d fought alongside some of the most buff and beautiful of them all just a few months ago. But there is something about the man in front of him. Quentin had lost everything, his family and his world- he understands what Peter is going through. Knows what it’s like to have to make the hardest choices.

He is so much bigger than Peter— who is in pretty good shape himself, _thank you very much._ He’s bulky, and still a bit mussed up from battle. Somehow even though Peter always feels like a sticky mess after a fight, it seems to improved Quentin’s attraction. His blue eyes appear to shine bright and amused past the smudges and sweat dried on his brow. He doesn’t say much to Peter, just lets Peter do the thinking that he so badly needs to do. He softly gives him simple and sage advice, almost as if Quentin knows exactly what he wants to hear, can nearly read his mind.

Looking at Quentin leaning into Peter like they have a secret between the two of them makes him sweaty around the collar in a way that has him missing his straw with his mouth. _Wow, he was really thirsty all of a sudden. Is it hot in here? Can he maybe get more lemonade?_

Quentin spots where the glasses have fallen from Peter’s pocket. EDITH was given to Peter for some reason, but he can’t believe in this moment that there’s anyone less prepared to have control. Peter scoops them up and has his fist clenched around the glasses- his responsibility- when the warm, calloused hand closes over his own. The touch is gentle, almost hesitant. Peter can tell that if he moved his hand, Beck would pretend nothing ever happened.

Peter thinks about it for a second- imagines pulling away and taking the glasses back to his hotel room, pretending none of this has happened. Then, he takes a breath. MJ is at the Opera with Brad. Peter’s life has become a comic book with crazy stuff and aliens and nothing normal at all. If there’s anything he knows, it’s that nothing in his life is certain anymore. He could be dead tomorrow from an alien or a cyborg lady or a talking rock. He has a choice, Quentin reiterates this to him. “You always have a choice, Peter.”

He does have a choice. But the paths he can go down are narrowing and changing. He makes a decision. Decides to take a risk. He doesn’t pull away, he releases the glasses onto the bar top, and looks Beck in the eyes as he interlocks their fingers on the sticky counter. _Your move, Mysterio._

“You want to get out of here, kid?” Quentin asks. Peter nods, with a gulp, and allows himself to be pulled from the bar and out into the humid night air.

Quentin is not staying at the same posh hotel that Peter’s class is, but he is nearby in a mid-level chain that appears clean and tidy. Peter’s not sure what he expected... _How does a man with a cape and a chest plate book a room in a hotel anyway?_ But Quentin has a keycard all the same and they take the elevator up to the fourth floor. Peter isn’t sure that he’s actually breathing. He may have actually forgotten how to breathe. He is on his way to a superhero’s hotel room. A big, buff, superhero, who more than likely has had a lot more sex than Peter (who has had absolutely zero sex, especially considering he has disappeared for the last few years). Still, when the door clicks open and Quentin gestures him into the room, it feels inevitable when their mouths collide.

Quentin tastes like beer and something darker and sweeter. His lips are plush and full as his tongue gently swipes into Peter’s mouth. Peter has certainly never kissed anyone with a beard before, and he’s quite surprised how the feeling of the coarse hair against his chin and cheeks is making his skin prickle and his cock take notice. He’s not sure what to do what his hands, so he just waves them around like an idiot for a bit before placing them on those huge fucking arms. _Oh God, oh God, oh God._

Quentin pulls back, and looks him in the face. Peter is now positive he can’t breathe. What is breathing and has he ever done it before? “Peter, have you ever been with a man like this before?”

Peter shakes his head. “N-no. Uh, no, Mr. Beck- Mysterio, Quentin, sir.”

There’s a heat in Quentin’s eyes. “No need to call me sir, kid. But you can if you want to.”

He suddenly has his mouth on Peter’s again and Peter feels the back of his knees hit the edge of the bed as they step backwards. He collapses with a thump, covered head to toe in big, strong, musky superhero. Strong hands go underneath his clothing, just teasing over his chest, stomach, hip bones. He is so hard now that he thinks he might be trembling, and he can feel an answering hardness pressing against his thigh that has him lifting his hips reflexively. “Please. Please!”

Peter isn’t sure what he’s begging for but Quentin must know because clothes are coming off and there’s a bare chest above him with muscles laid with chestnut hair that Peter doesn’t hesitate to run his hands over. He feels his own clothes being pulled at and lifts his hips in order to allow Quentin to free his cock from its constraints. Quentin looks at him like he wants to eat Peter alive. Peter is pretty sure he also wants that because, well, _yeah._

“You ever have anyone touch this pretty dick, kid? Anyone else ever make you cum? Make you scream?” Peter shudders and begins his litany of begging again as he sees Quentin lower his head and let out a few hot breathes over the sensitive skin. He almost shouts when that hot mouth envelopes him entirely.

“Holy shit, oh boy, oh God, ohhhh my God,” he spews nonsense and he can’t even bring himself to care as he feels that hot tongue circling the head of his cock, Quentin moaning like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. Peter is sure he’s going to cum any moment when Quentin pulls off with a soft pop. “I want to fuck you, baby. Would you like that? Do you want that, Peter?”

Peter isn’t sure if he would like that or not, to be honest, but somehow he’s down on all fours with a hard body pressed against his back before he can make himself form a coherent sentence. Sucking kisses and nips to the back of his neck and shoulders have him shaking and “Whatever you want, yeaaaaaah,” leaves his mouth as fingers wrap around his cock from around his waist.

The hands leave his body for a moment and suddenly he feels a bit cold as that hot body gives him some space to breathe for the first time in minutes. He hears Quentin shuck the last of his clothing on the floor and manages to timidly look over his shoulder from his place on the bed. He isn’t sure if he’s turned on or frightened as he takes in the impressive size of Quentin’s dick. He’s standing there proud and erect, rifling in a bag on the hotel dresser when he meets Peter’s eyes with a cocky grin. “You’re sure?,” he teases, sliding one hand to the base of his cock to give it a little squeeze.

Peter isn’t certain he can handle it, but he is sure that he wants to try. “Yes, sir,” he says in a soft voice, barely more than a whisper. Quentin’s eyes narrow and he is back over and around the back of Peter in seconds, his hand snaking around Peter’s waist to stroke him again, hot mouth making patterns over his shoulders, his back, his lower back, his.... HOLY HELL. A hot tongue swipes over his most intimate place and Peter bucks back like he’s been shocked. He feels strong hands tighten around his hips as that mouth, _that tongue,_ circle and lick around his hole.

There’s the snick of a bottle behind him and an uncharacteristically slick and cool finger joins the tongue soon after, pressing into him. Peter shudders, but it feels good to have something inside of him, having someone this close to him, exploring him and testing him in ways he’s never felt before.

Soon a second finger stretches his rim, Quentin goes slow and gentle, leaning into him to whisper tender nonsense into his ear, “You are so tight around my fingers, kid. I can’t wait to stretch you with my cock.” A third finger.

“I bet you’re going to feel me for _days_ when I’m through with you.”

Peter is pretty sure he’s going to die or cum all over himself (or both) any second now, when the fingers leave his body and the slick, latex-covered head of Quentin’s cock rubs over his opening. He braces himself against his forearms, pressing his forehead to the pillow as he feels the thick girth start to stretch him open wider than he thought was possible.

Peter knows people must do this for a reason, that it will feel good, but it feels quite strange at first. Intimate, invasive and like it is too much and not enough at the same time. Peter focuses on relaxing his body and listens to the sounds and shaky breaths coming from Quentin. “Fuck, Parker, you’re tight.”

The swear word catches Peter a bit off guard and sends a throb to his cock. Suddenly Quentin adjusts his position, sliding deeper and hitting just the right spot and it’s like Peter sees stars. He can feel his heart beating where their bodies are attached, the hot length of Quentin feeling like it’s splitting him open and at the same time the only thing tethering him to Earth.

“Oh god, please.” Peter doesn’t know what he’s asking for again, but Quentin must because the pleasure expands tenfold as he starts to pull out and surge back in with controlled, deep thrusts that have Peter pretty sure that he’s going to lose his voice screaming.

He thinks this might be better than swinging from buildings, better than flying, maybe. He can’t fly, but Quentin can, and maybe after this they can fly together. Maybe _they_ can hold hands at the top of the Eiffel Tower, or run away to Earth 147A, or whatever will make this happen again because this is the best thing he’s ever felt. He’s pretty sure he can’t see anything but the back of his eyes because there’s pressure building inside his chest, and then that hand gives him a _squeeze_ in just the right spot at the base of his cock and suddenly Peter’s vision whites out.

He might be crying, might be falling. He’s not sure but he starts to become aware of a heavy weight on top of him and a hot breath whispering, “Yeah, kid. So good. Fuck.”

Quentin pulls off of him and away and Peter is suddenly feeling empty with the loss. He turns over in the bed, a mess of sweat and spunk on his belly.

Quentin smiles over at him and tosses a towel his way. “Clean yourself up kid, you don’t want the Night Monkey to make the news for indecent exposure.”

Peter blushes a bit as he mops himself up, reaching down to grab his clothes when he feels the frames of EDITH. He looks down at his hand holding the glasses.

Their talk at the bar feels like ages ago now. The glasses feel heavy with the expectation of all that he knows that he should do, but isn’t sure he’s ready for. He looks up and sees Quentin pulling on a shirt, the glint of the wedding ring still on his finger and comes to an idea.

“Quentin, I want you to have these.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I’ve written in the 2 1/2 years since I had a traumatic brain injury so any feedback is appreciated. I didn’t have a beta so please excuse any grammar issues.


End file.
